


to destroy and wreck and rebuild anew

by clizzyhours



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Dark!Daenerys, Dark!Daensa, Dark!Sansa, Everything in Game of Thrones basically, F/F, Happy Ending, Just a giant fuck you in general, Mentions of abuse / rape / sexual assault / etc, Murder, Murder Wives, Poison, Torture, Violence, Weapons, a lot of symbolism, and the innocent, daenery's dragons are all here, daensa wields justice and revenge, dany / sansa's pov, dragon riding, fuck D&D, fuck tyrion lannister and petyr baelish, literally set in a vague canon timeline, long and rambly, protects women, they are quite literally misandrists, yes this is all messed up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-31
Updated: 2019-07-31
Packaged: 2020-07-28 04:28:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20058007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clizzyhours/pseuds/clizzyhours
Summary: Daenerys and Sansa are living legends and they cultivate stories everywhere they go. Together, they thrive and bring justice, revenge, and vengeance."Sansa kisses Daenerys fervently once astride and oh, yes, this is what it means to have a home."





	to destroy and wreck and rebuild anew

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sapphfics](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sapphfics/gifts).

> Trigger warnings: Murder. Violence. Weapons. Torture. Mention of abuse / rape /etc. Typical Game of Thrones Levels.  
thank you so much for reading and please enjoy!

“Your Grace,” Sansa says in the most lovely voice, soft and sweet.

She knows what is hiding behind the innocent facade, her gentle demeanor, the undercurrent of darkness rushing through like blood.

“Yes?” Daenerys says. 

“Perhaps we shall dine outside this evening?” Sansa asks, bright eyed and inquisitive.

Her vivid red hair is pulled back and she wears her Stark cloak like armor. Her smile is like silk.

It’s torture. It’s heaven.

But for whom or who?

Daenerys smile is wide and answers pleasantly. “Of course, Sansa.”

She drawls out Sansa in her Targaryen way, an emphasis like she’s important, like she matters and it makes a world of difference.

She thinks of men who have snarled out ‘Sansa’, gritty teeth and heavy breath and unwanted hands.

She thinks of her parent’s soft but caring way in their mannerisms and tone when they would say Sansa.

Her siblings and their variations of anger, of indifference, of familiarity - a matter of vicious lines and complexity.

She thinks of Cersei Lannister, the fallen queen who condescended and used her pretty hands to try and dig her way into her mind. The serpent Joffrey and his scheming hands, the hurt and abuse and anger he inflicted. The Golden Lannister’s and their desire to overwhelm and consume everything in their path.

Of Peytr Baelish and his ultimate desire to turn herself into a shrine of Catelyn. Catelyn - Sansa, mother and daughter, blessed beauty, the gods say, blurred lines indeed.

Out of everyone, Margaery Tyrell came the closest and the most kindest with her sweet but cunning nature, the dragon inside her.

She brought Sansa wonder and said her name like divinity, like salvation.

And with Daenerys Targaryen? Somehow she has become the extremely most vital person to her, unraveled her from demeanor and facade and hidden nature and pulled herself inside. Daenerys Targaryen has cultivated a home out of herself.

She says Sansa like it’s everything to her. 

And well? A spark has been lit and fused and she refuses to let go.

Sansa offers her arm to Daenerys, links themselves together akin to fire and ice. They mesh well, she thinks, seeing her dark burgundy dress embedded in gold, glistening like stars, a contrast to her own endless blue dress with intricate designs that make her stand tall with pride.

She’s confident on her own but with Daenerys? They are a force to be reckoned with.

In the outside, the air is cooler in Braavos and the golden sun is fading into a violet and blue smear of nighttime.

Daenerys recalls their long but strenuous journey here - all those months ago where they ran together, fleeing for safety after the fall of King’s Landing due to Cersei Lannister’s destructive power, a glory of ash and dust.

Lemon trees shroud the house, a once safe haven to a dilapidated place after she and Viserys had been removed and exiled to a whole new beginning.

A wooden circular table is in the middle of the balcony with a silk covered cloth draped over the surface with endless palettes of fresh fruits and bread and smoked meat. Goblets of wine are readily poured easily as they venture over and sit.

“It’s beautiful,” Sansa breathes and she can’t help but let out a small smile.

“I wanted to surprise you,” She says, smoothing out the crinkle in the material.

Sansa places her hand on her own, stopping her nervous movement.

“It’s perfect, Dany,” She says again, eyes bright and teeth wide.

A lovely smile, Daenerys thinks. Sansa’s hand remains on her, the anxiety slowly melting away with the touch.

Her eyes are staring into her own and it’s intense and intimate and everything she has always wanted with someone.

In the far north to the sky, she can see her dragons swarming and circling, beautiful and strong and alive.

A bit of magic never hurt anyone after all, she muses, thinking of her voyage into resurrection and the sheer power she had felt to bring her dragons back to her.

She remembers Sansa’s awed eyes and delighted laughter. 

She was never terrified and gods, didn’t that exhilarate her? 

“They are beautiful,” Sansa notes, gesturing to the wide but vast sky where her dragons fly fiercely.

Her kind words instantly warm her inside, set aglow.

Sansa’s approval has come to mean a lot her and she can’t imagine anything or anyone else in her place.

Daenerys is smiling widely now. 

Sansa’s gaze studies them for a mere moment and there’s something like curiosity in her eyes.

“You once say to me that when I was ready, we could?” Sansa says, trailing off into silence.

“Ride the dragons?” She finishes her unspoken thought. 

“Yes.”

“Do you really mean that?” A flicker of excitement runs up her spine. Anticipation is settling in.

Sansa turns to her and nods, acquiesce. 

“I am ready.”

“Okay,” Daenerys confirms and just like that, she calls for them.

They hurtle towards the balcony at a rapid pace, enormous and belonging to the world around them.

Drogon is first, the dragon’s head immediately falling under the palm of her hand as she brings Sansa’s nearby.

Sansa doesn’t gape but smiles, her fingers slowly descending into Daenerys and together, they soothe him. She has never feared them and it’s a lot - it’s everything. 

Her other two dragons are near, awaiting their turn.

Drogon eases away and she soothe Rhaegal next, Viserion flying low.

Sansa mimics her movement, soothes the scales and pets the markings. Rhaegal let’s put a huff of a noise, comforted.

“Rhaegal is beautiful. Of course, they are all beautiful but Rhaegal is,” Sansa says. “Almost something more?”

Daenerys can’t help but wonder if Sansa feels a pull to Rhaegal. Sometimes connections are instantaneous and that’s something she knew quite well with her dragons.

“Hmm,” She muses out-loud and with a quick nudge, Viserion is over, wings beating loudly.

Sansa smooths him first, hands making circular pattern, fingers soothing. It’s rhythmic and Daenerys backs up slightly to study her.

Her eyes are entirely focused on her task and Sansa barely blinks, does not look away.

Sansa is strong and enduring and she can recall all too well of their shared trauma, their memories unleashed on long roads. It was gradually over time, slowly linking themselves closer and closer together with each campfire, each discussion and stares and laughter. Drogon was gone but they had one another, scathing and scorned but alive. 

Tumultuous survival some days while other days involved time bleeding away, leaving them to pry their souls open with carved hands.

Shared horrors and the ever-closing edge of something unknown and unidentifiable until one long late night, Sansa leaned over to kiss her with berry covered lips.

She tasted like fruit and smelled vaguely like the outdoors. It was different and new and a part of her had been afraid. And yet? She also felt like something has opened up inside of her and when she kissed Sansa back, her world tilted.

She remembers cupping Sansa’s cheek, red strands falling. The sharp jawline and softness of her cheek. A tear had fallen from her blue eyes, dripping like rain.

Sansa had pulled back for a brief second, the ghost of her breath in front of her in the cold night. Daenerys remembers searching her expression and eyes until something clicked.

They kissed again and again and again until the fires were ember, huddling into one another for warmth in between fur and cloaks.

Sansa’s voice breaks her from memory and she murmurs, “Rhaegal. Definitely Rhaegal.”

Daenerys nods and she makes a noise, calls loudly.

Rhaegal flies and hovers. Daenerys takes Sansa’s hand and pulls her gently, their fingers intertwined.

“Better than a prince,” Sansa laughs as Daenerys carefully helps her to become seated among Rhaegal. He’s accommodating and his sheer fierceness reminds her of childhood and of songs sang, of Prince Rhaegal with reality so much better.

“Oh?” Daenerys says, shifting behind Sansa as her legs carefully adjust to their even position.

She directs Sansa with hushed directions, whispering in her ear with the gentlest tone.

“From a song years ago. The dragon is much better than a prince,” Sansa teases, her hands positioned just so on Rhaegal‘s back.

Daenerys is so close to her, she thinks. 

She focuses when Daenerys calls out to Rhaegal and they begin to soar as the dragon takes flight.

The wind rushes by and she’s overcome with sheer giddiness.

Rhaegal feels in-tune with her, with Daenerys, with them. Viserion and Drogon fly next to them in tandem.

It’s powerful. It’s strength and she’s reminded of her direwolf Lady. The connection she had fostered and she feels it again with Rhaegal.

It’s so much - so indescribable.

The sky feels endless and vast and she can hear Daenerys laugh behind her. It’s like a melody.

Reality is much better than a hidden dream she once had, the ghost of a song lingering in the past.

Like everything else, she shoves her demons far behind and wears herself proudly.

Daenerys inspires the strength inside of her but she knows how much she has endured, has grown. She’s left with peace and a vengeance. 

The thrill she has now? It’s the same as she gets when justice is served.

No one can take this feeling away from her. Not Arya. Not Jon.

She reaps what has been sown.

The flight continues with the five of them - human riders and dragons alike.

It’s incredible and they fly and soar. The sun had long set and the night sky is a painted black canvas with dotted on stars. If Sansa squinted, she could almost see the wide world of Westeros.

Daenerys presence stabilizes her and she can feel her holding on.

They fly and soar again until time seems to melt away.

Gradually, the dragons seem to tire and when they are done, she and Daenerys slide onto the balcony with phantom steps.

She wobbles but Dany catches her, a firm grip. Sansa lets out a quiet thank you as Daenerys focuses upon her dragons.

Daenerys murmurs something in another language, Dothraki or Valyrian perhaps, and feeds them with a treat. She soothes them and they fly low, melting into the darkness.

“Shall we continued what we started?” Daenerys breaks the wheel of silence.

Sansa nods and they sit once more, finishing the feast with hushed words and an unspoken agreement.

Tomorrow, they’ll start again. Rumors, the absolute truth, have flown like bugs and she and Daenerys will squash them yet again.

Bravaas is home in so many ways but the rest of Westeros is left waiting for them. For their dragons. 

Vengeance is swift like a serpent and together, they are Lilith and Eve and unspoken legends.

In the morning, they set out.

They pick their best dresses and prep carefully, wield poisonous smiles and fiery eyes.

The dragons are hungry and so are they.

Fierce wind hits them and they go with the current, darkness laced underneath.

Freedom is in the atmosphere and air and sky. Sansa wonders why she waited so long to fly.

It’s her own slice of heaven.

She can spy Daenerys on Drogon from the corner of her eye. Her silvery blonde hair is pulled into complicated braids, bits of flowers intertwined. Poison, she recalls.

Her lips are smeared with color and her face is broken into a determined expression.

She’s reminded of a mythical goddess instantly. A woman bringing war.

The dragon’s wings flap and flap and flap, Sansa can feel the adrenaline pumping and her heart racing in the best possible way.

She thinks of their last journey, mission where they finished executing slavers and men who kidnapped young women and put them through hell. A fucked up ring of sexual entitlement and assault and rape.

Dracerys was the golden word and their dragons left a mark, burning their precise targets.

The people and women had been far, far away in a land of refuge and safety.

The guilty? Isn’t it quite sad how they went. A true tragedy. A dark bark of laughter escapes her. Daenerys glances up with her a vindictive smile.

They fly low and make their way into the village that Tyrion Lannister is rumored to be hiding in, like the coward he is.

Sansa scans the surrounding area with hungry eyes. Houses and huts and buildings are close together with vast grassy area and thick forest as a barrier.

Daenerys leads and Sansa follows. She will always follow and vice versa. They are one.

They land carefully, sliding off their dragon’s with cultivated quietness.

Sansa feels the knife along her thigh, tied with silk ribbon and gossamer. The poison in her jeweled locket. Her hair secured with a sharp weapon turned hair piece and the vials of liquids hidden deep in her layers of clothing.

She feels like a reborn revolutionary and aims to make this painful as possible for Tyrion Lannister.

They all die in the end. 

Carefully, they maneuver into the village. People walk to and fro, gathering up fresh bread and attending to market stands. It’s populous, she notes.

Daenerys dress carefully edges against hers as they walk confidently. Eyes are on them, hushed whispers of fierce-some queens who wield death everywhere they go. 

No one gets in their way and even if somebody did, they will not harm the innocent.

They are like women in white, wailing banshees, and mystic witches in one as they walk and stroll and carve out the area with daggered eyes.

They will find him. They always find them. People move out of the way. They always do.

Daenerys moves fiercely and Sansa echoes her. They brush up against one another again and again and the intimacy of it wants to make her gasp.

So close and yet so far. Tantalizing.

They are nearing the end of the village and Daenerys seems to detect a suspicion. She moves quickly and Sansa follows her into a disruptive building.

Loud noise and distorted drunken voices. She’s not surprised. The benches are old and weakening, the tables cracking under the force of brute men’s strength.

It’s horrifying.

She’s disgusted.

The hunt is on and she scans the room. Daenerys is sulking on the edges, pretty lips pouting as she engages in a conversation with a blatantly perverse man.

Aha, she thinks.

A lot of men are going to die tonight.

She spies Tyrion Lannister in the corner, dark cloak barely concealing him. He’s too evident. He thinks he can blend into the shadow but his appearance and mannerism and body language give himself away.

It’s something she and Daenerys have studied and cultivated and fined.

Goodbye, she thinks and walks up with a pretty smile.

Men are all the same.

“Hello Tyrion, it’s been a long while, hasn’t it?” She says pleasantly.

Tyrion glances up with hooded eyes and he studies her.

“You’re different,” He says instead.

And gods, she is rather tired of assumptions.

Even if it’s the truth.

“You made a mistake fleeing,” He says this time and Sansa can barely contain the urge to roll her eyes.

Men. Men. Men. Lannister men, she scoffs.

The forged marriage they shared was a blight.

His feigned casualty and his presumption enrage her. 

“She corrupted you,” Tyrion nearly hisses, his cloak sliding.

Sansa leans forward and bares her teeth. “You seem to think you know all about me, don’t you?”

Tyrion appears taken-back for a brief moment before forming his face into neutrality.

“She killed wicked men everywhere she went and now you are a mere marionette at her hands.”

Hmm, no.

“And I think you are exactly like those wicked men you seek to protect, you seek to fawn over.”

“We broke the wheel. You did nothing,” She hisses.

Tyrion’s eyes narrow with anger. She peels back her dress and shows the knife.

“If you want to live, you will say nothing.” 

A lie, lie, lie. A glimpse of fear appears on his face and she smiles brightly.

He swallows instead.

“Good. You can’t repent your sins, can you?” Sansa says, her voice cutting like ice.

“Betrayal against your queen. Against your family. Against me. You have murdered and pillaged and abused and have brought nothing but destruction in your track.”

She flashes the knife again and she can see Daenerys in the background, blood seeping from her elegant sword.

A man is lying on the ground, blood oozing and she can feel zero sympathy.

He got what he deserved for laying a hand on Daenerys.

Tyrion eyes flash over to the scene and he gulps, backing away. Drunken men laugh and others look, stumbling away from the fray.

Sansa is faster and steps on his cloak, hovering coldly.

“We shall take you outside, don’t we think?” 

Daenerys is by her side instantly.

“Hello Tyrion,” Dany states like a poisoned promise.

They have him now. A prey meeting his end.

“You did this to yourself,” An almost coo. A silky whisper.

Sansa lets Daenerys brings the sword down and when blood is spilled, she smiles.

Tyrion staggers back, choking on thick, hot blood. Daenerys wields her sword again as the elegant steel shines in the illuminated candlelight.

Sansa brings her knife down in rapid successions without zero remorse or shame or regrets.

“This is for Shae, this is for all the women and girls you have ever thought about hurting or have hurt,” Sansa hisses venomously.

Tyrion’s eyes widened, blood oozing. He’s a parody of his Lannister bloodline now, suffering under the weight of sins.

“Together?” Daenerys inquires, her eyes scanning Sansa for any injury or bruise or wound.

Always so worried, she thinks.

Sansa smiles sharply and in unison, they bring their weapons down, piercing and deep.

Tyrion words are a bare murmur, a mere hum of ‘cursed women.’ Sansa bares her teeth in reply. Daenerys wears a lovely, ravenous expression.

His last breath leaves him and he’s limp, covered in blood and dirt.

They were so very careful to avoid getting blood spilled on their beautiful gowns and faces, their sword and knife slick with hot blood.

The men around them have scattered and she smiles again, knowing the words that will be whispered, the rumors spread far beyond this village into the deep of Westeros.

Daenerys takes her by the hand and they walk out over the man she had run a sword through earlier, lithe and light into the ground.

Their dragons await them.

Sansa kisses Daenerys fervently once astride and oh, yes, this is what it means to have a home.

They fly into the descending sun.

Daenerys arms are tight around Sansa’s and she can’t help but recall their spewed fervor at Petyr Baelish.

A memory in the past but one she loves to think about.

She remembered dragging Baelish with coiled wire and presenting him as a gift to Sansa.

The coy gaze Sansa wore and the dark intrigue in her eyes.

Baelish begged and pleaded and cowered. 

“Your mother,” he would say to Sansa again and again and again while she smiled prettily.

“My mother is dead, Lord Baelish and your follies do not frighten me.”

Baelish had tried a myriad of methods and each factor was shot down with Daenerys expert hands and Sansa’s bitterness.

Men were all the same. Cruel and vindictive and breaking women to their inner soul. 

Baelish started a war in the name of women who did not ask. The Trojan horse he expected to wield and cultivate with power, but in the end his downfall was of his own making.

Sansa and Daenerys wield justice and they deliver timely and seemly again and again and again. 

They took their time slowly and made him suffer, aching and gasping. Did you know how much a human body can endure poison?

“Actions have consequences,” Daenerys had teased, sliding her nails down Baelish’s face with Sansa looking at her intensely and so filled with love. It had lit a burning flame.

They found out very easily how much poison can wreck a human body and gods, weren’t their dragons very interested in the aftermath.

The satisfaction they delved into, Rhaegal, Visieron, and Drogon munching and consuming and devouring whole.

Petyr Baelish was no more and Daenerys smiled victoriously.

Sansa’s touch brings her to present-day, a cool hand cupping her cheek. The wind blows heavily and she hears their dragons wings flap loudly.

“What are you thinking so heavily of, Dany?” Sansa inquires in the cold air. 

“Us.”

“And what about us?” 

“Everything we have endured and everything that has brought us to this singular moment,” Daenerys muses.

“I would never change a thing. I could not,” Sansa whispers, feeling the warmth of Daenerys pressed so closer. 

Beloved one, she thinks. Daenerys kisses her in the cool atmosphere among their soaring dragons. It’s real. It’s fiery. It’s them and everything they do.

Everywhere they go, whispers and rumors follow. The mad queen and the corrupted wolf. The silver-haired enchantress and red temptress.

They kill evil men everywhere in their wake.

Slavers and rapists and abusers. Men who pillage and corrupt and destroy. They leave a blood-smeared trail and trampled ashes.

Daenerys and Sansa command and command and their dragons burn under every single command.

Oh, it was an accident, some may say. It looks like an accident when they choose to do so. Other’s are justice served.

Young women make inquisitive pleas to them, vendettas, and agendas growing widely in Westeros.

They answer the pleas and they deliver justice. Vengeance. Revenge served on a platter with zero regrets. People have tried to stop them and they fail every single time.

They are legendary by simply choosing one another, hardened by life, and creating a home in ice and fire.

In Braavos, Daenerys and Sansa languish in the sunlight with their dragons. To create legends, you be one. They are mythical goddesses and divinity. 

Women forge and destroy and conquer and fight. Women reign and lead and command. Women comfort and soothe and protect. Women are more than archetypes, tropes, more than toys and instruments and are three-dimensional human beings who simply are.

Sansa kisses Daenerys with furious passion and thinks, these are the choices we have made.

There’s no looking back.


End file.
